


Pitat bal Orar

by PunsBulletsAndPointyThings



Series: CLONE DADS Au [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Post-Order 66, clone dads, could maybe be tagged as PTSD warning but I'm not sure if this counts or not?, excessive use of Mando'a
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6489790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunsBulletsAndPointyThings/pseuds/PunsBulletsAndPointyThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories strike as the rain falls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitat bal Orar

**Author's Note:**

> Pitat bal Orar - Rain and Thunder
> 
>  
> 
> See, what did I say? A non flash fic addition to this series. (It is incredibly self indulgent though. Oh well.)

Rain on Ryloth was a rare thing, but when it did rain, it rained. Storms, when they occurred, could last anywhere from three days to two weeks at a time. Torrential wind and rain, thunder like canon-fire; for a few days, the world would rage, before returning to the sunbaked desert it normally was.  
  
It was strangely beautiful, Waxer mused, in its own way. Oh sure, he had seen rain before; Kamino had been a planet of constant storms, and he could remember many a campaign that saw the 212th sitting in the mud, trying to distinguish approaching enemy troops from the thunder that shook their bones. But none of that compared to the rainy season on Ryloth.  
  
The storm had started the previous afternoon, slow at first; a calm background noise to Waxer’s thoughts as his little family went about their day, gathering strength throughout the night. They had been on Ryloth for almost a year, and things had slowly become routine. Nightmares were still common enough, and not just for him, but they were all beginning to heal. It was easiest for Numa; she was excited to be back on her home planet, and it had not taken her long to reunite with an old friend, Hera, the daughter of the head of one of the larger clans, and Rebel leader Cham Syndulla.  
  
Adjusting had been a longer, slower process for Waxer and Boil. Neither man was used to life outside of the army; hell, neither of them had expected to live through the war, if they were being completely honest. But after Sixty-Six…  
  
Waxer pulled away from those thoughts, turning his head to look out the window. He had settled himself down on the wide, stone windowsill of one of the larger windows in the front room of the tiny dwelling they had claimed as their own. Normally, it was a favorite place to read Numa stories in the evenings, the stone warm from the day’s sun. Today, though, it was an ideal lookout into the outside world. Through the rain hammering down against the transparisteel, Waxer could just make out the figures of Numa and Hera, shrieking with laughter as they played, rejoicing in the rarity of so much water all at one.  
  
The clone smiled, laughing softly as Numa launched herself, feet first, into a massive puddle, water spraying up around her and soaking both girls at once. He tugged the blanket he had grabbed from the bedroom, to combat the rain-induced chill, tighter around his shoulders as a roar of thunder rolled through the slate skies.  
  
“What’s so funny?” Boil asked, wandering out of their bedroom. He was shirtless, wearing a pair of soft grey trousers, his feet bare and his hair still damp from the ‘fresher. Waxer let his eyes wander, lingering for a moment on the durasteel band on the fourth finger of the other man’s left hand. His smile had turned into a silly grin, but he did not care.  
  
“I was just thinking, we have a pretty great kid.”  
  
“Of course we do.” Boil padded over, tapping at Waxer’s knees with the back of his knuckles, “She’s _our_ kid. Scoot.”  
  
Waxer pulled his knees up to his chest, leaving room for Boil to settle down next to him on the window sill. Boil reached out, catching Waxer’s hand with his own, tangling their fingers together. They sat in silence for a while, Waxer staring out into the rain, Boil with his eyes closed.  
  
“It’s peaceful.”  
  
Boil opened one eye. “Hmm?”  
  
“The rain, it’s peaceful,” Waxer repeated, still gazing out the window, and his fingers tightened around Boil’s hand, “Cleansing almost. I dunno.”  
  
Boil frowned slightly, tugging at the other man’s hand and shifting them both until his back was to the wall and Waxer was pulled to him, curled against Boil’s chest, their knees bumping together. Waxer gave no protest to the position change, even as Boil tugged the blanket away from his shoulders, wrapping it around them both.  
  
“You alright, _gar’cyar’ika_?” He asked, once they were organized and settled.  
  
Waxer nodded, relaxing further back against his husband. “Yeah, I’m okay. Was just thinking.”  
  
Boil nodded in silent understanding and pressed a soft kiss to Waxer’s right temple, over the large, white scar that painted his skin from temple to cheekbone, just barely missing his eye; a stark reminder of Umbara, and how close Boil had come to losing the man in his arms. “Memories?”  
  
“Yeah.” Waxer’s voice was softer, his eyes drifting back to the window, through the rain, to the two children, still happily playing. “It’ll be a year soon.”  
  
Boil did not need to ask what he meant. A year since the world fell apart under their feet, a year since they had grabbed Numa and run. A year since the order that had caused their brothers to collectively lose their minds, to turn on their Jedi. Boil shudder, his arms tightening around Waxer’s waist.  
  
“Already?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
The silence stretched again, filled by the ever constant sound rain on stone and hard-packed earth, punctuated occasionally by thunder shaking the sky.  
  
“ _Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la,_ ” Boil murmured finally, bending his head to kiss the side of Waxer’s neck gently. The other man’s smile was a little bitter, at the old Mando’a phrase.  
  
‘Not gone, merely marching far away.’  
  
He snorted, “That’s one way to put it.”  
  
“Waxer…”  
  
“Boil you saw them! You know what they did as well as I do!”  
  
Boil gritted his teeth at the memory, Cody ordering them to fire on their General, the news of the 501st marching on the Jedi temple. Neither man had stopped to wonder why they were unaffected, especially after Cody had turned his blaster on Boil; they had just run.  
  
Waxer was still speaking, low and hushed, but his words were tight with anger. “They’re still marching, alright. Under the Emperor’s banner.” He spat the title like it was something toxic in his mouth.  
  
Boil found he had no response to that, so he pressed his face into the crook of Waxer’s neck and closed his eyes.  
  
“We’re going to be okay, Love. Numa’s okay, I’m okay, you’re okay. We’re all here. We’re all safe.” He wasn’t quite sure if the words were meant to comfort Waxer, or himself.  
  
Waxer’s breath hitched, and Boil held him tighter, murmuring soft, comforting noises, like he did went Numa woke up from nightmares. Waxer curled further into his arms, and Boil began whispering.  
  
“ _Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome_ ,”  
  
Another shaky almost-sob, but Waxer was replying, voice just as soft as Boil’s.  
  
“ _Mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde_.”  
  
Pulling away from Boil, Waxer turned, shifting so he could face his husband. His eyes were shining, wet with unshed tears, and the smile on his lips was still too sad for Boil’s liking, but it was still a smile. Reaching out Waxer grasped Boil’s hand, bringing it up to his lips to kiss the cool metal of his ring.  
  
“Gods, I love you so much.” It almost sounded like a prayer, the words pressed against warm skin and cool metal.  
  
“And I love you.” Boil reached out, cupping Waxer’s face with his free hand and tilting his head up so that he could lean in, close the distance and kiss him.  
  
He could feel the last of Waxer’s tension melting away as they kissed, and was glad for it. Moments like these, when memories and old pain would strike without warning, they had become less and less common with every passing month, but Boil knew it would be a long time until either of them were completely free, if ever.  
  
Neither man meant to fall asleep, but the rhythmic sound of the rain was soothing, and there was nowhere Waxer felt more a peace than curled up in Boil’s arms. It did not take long for him to drift off, and Boil followed soon after, lulled by the rain and the steady pattern of Waxer’s breathing.  
  
Some time later, the silence in the house was broken as the front door creaked open. Mud dripped down Numa’s right lekku as she stepped out of the rain and into the dry house, and Hera was still giggling about it as she followed, both girls soaked to the bone and thrilled about it. Pulling off her boots while Hera shut the door, Numa was about to call out, in the hopes that Nerra Waxer or Boil would bring them towels when her eyes drifted to the large window sill/seat. Biting her lip against a giggle, she reached out, patting Hera’s shoulder to get her friend’s attention, lekku moving in silent communication.  
  
‘Look.’  
  
Following Numa’s gazing, Hera’s eyes widened, and she bit back a grin. Waxer had his cheek pressed against Boil’s shoulder, and Boil’s head was tipped back, mouth open slightly. The blanket was twisted haphazardly around them, and Boil’s bare feet stuck out at the bottom.  
  
‘Aww. Your dads are so cute.’  
  
Giggling, Numa grabbed Hera’s hand, leading the other girl down the hall in search of towels and dry clothes.  
  
Outside, the thunder rolled and the wind hollowed as the rain continued to pour down, but inside the house, it was warm and still, the tiny family wholly at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> So I totally bullshitted the stuff on Ryloth's weather/rainy season. I have no idea if that is actually a thing on Ryloth, but for my purposes (and because I am sucker for rainy weather fics) it is.
> 
> Mando'a:
> 
> gar’cyar’ika - Masculine form of cyar'ika - darling, beloved, sweetheart  
> Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la - Not gone, merely marching far away. (Mandalorian phrase for the departed)  
> Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde - We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raises warriors. (Mandalorian marriage vows)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Pitat bal Orar, by PunsBulletsAndPointyThings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8259470) by [sanerontheinside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside)




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